


Cold December Night

by tenscupcake



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenscupcake/pseuds/tenscupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Rose revive the Christmas spirit over a secluded frozen lake and find themselves testing the boundaries of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold December Night

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: INSUFFERABLE CHRISTMAS FLUFF.  
> DW Secret Santa gift for [badwolfreborn](http://badwolfreborn.tumblr.com), who prompted 'history, any rating.' This got a bit long, but I hope you like it! Merry Christmas :) <333

Christmas has always been an important time of year for the Tylers. And this year it went largely uncelebrated, what with the Sycorax and the chaos following the Doctor’s regeneration. But the Doctor isn’t clued in on that fact, not yet anyway. So when, a few weeks into their revived travels, she humbly requests that they turn back time to swap the sunny, green planets for a wintry setting to extend the holiday season she missed out on, she almost expects him to turn her down at first.

“Oh, Rose, you couldn’t stop complaining Christmas night. Every time we walked outside.”

He’s right, completely right. And she knows it. She’s not overly fond of the cold. Still, it doesn’t stop her more stubborn tendencies from flaring up at the implications of his blasé commentary: that she shouldn’t be able to decide where she does and doesn’t want to go. Especially since he’s the one who asked. He isn’t even making a big thing of it, not really. Lights on the panels flicker on and off, switches click into place, the engines shift and growl under the skillful attention from his hands as his feet dance around the console. Prepping for the flight, as usual, only sparing her a short glance as he speaks.

“Doctor!” Her tone carries with it an accusation even he couldn’t miss. The constant stream of noise from his tinkering with the controls halts as he looks up from his work, his eyebrows low over his eyes, questioning.

“Was that rude?”

She folds her arms over her chest, looks at him expectantly.

“Right, sorry." He nods, abruptly changing his demeanor. "You want more Christmas, Rose Tyler? Just leave it to me,” he practically sings. “I’m sure we’ve got some warmer clothes than… that.” Nodding towards her current wardrobe choice of jim-jams only briefly, his tango with the console continues in the opposite direction he came, presumably reversing whatever destination he defaulted to in that big head of his.

“Really?” She shouldn’t be shocked he caved so quickly; this fresh regeneration has been play-doh in her hands in the short weeks she’s known him.

“’Course.” His warm smile rivals her own, the tender curve of his lips keeps her frozen to the spot even as he turns away, her legs gelatin beneath her.

The way he skips around the console, mumbling the lyrics to ‘let it snow’ in syllables she can’t understand, doesn’t help. Nor the way he spins on his toes with a final throw of a lever, or the way his grin widens as the engines roar to life with signature metallic wheezing, a smile so genuine and charming on his lips it leaves her breathless. It’s not the first time that pinstripes and freckles and nearly sentient hair have mesmerized her, and she knows it probably won’t be the last.

“Go on and change, then,” he teases when he catches her staring, shooing her towards the hall with another nod as he makes his rounds.

A physical shake of her head snaps her out of it enough to give him a nod and a small, nervous smile before she runs down the hall to change.

Jeans, boots, a jumper, and a fur-tipped coat replace her green pajamas after she cleans up in her en-suite. Time drags on as she slows down getting the last of her things ready – a scarf and some gloves for good measure. She’s trying not to seem to eager to bound back into his arms, to let on to him that ever since he picked a swordfight with the Sycorax leader, his effortless charisma has made her soft clay in his hands, too.

She was never supposed to fall in love with this new version so quickly, always thought it would be a disservice to the Doctor who said farewell such a short time ago. But though his eyes are brown and passionate where they were once a subdued, icy blue, she can still see the wisdom and concealed pain in their depths in the quieter moments. Though his voice is an octave higher and it crams more words per minute than she thought possible, the techno-babble is just the same, the embers of love for life and humanity are still there. She realizes it more and more as the days go on: he’s the same man, albeit thinner, a good bit fairer, and far more inclined to affectionate behavior. More than anything else, though, she knows this version is more delicate somehow; much of his stoic, calloused exterior stripped away to reveal a distinct vulnerability, even susceptibility, that she hasn’t yet come to fully understand.

She’s tapping her foot, chewing her bottom lip just next to her door before she knows it, her stomach doing rhythmic little flips at the prospect of where he’ll take them (and she’ll never admit, the knowledge they’ll have to huddle close if there is indeed freezing weather). Less than a minute passes before she gives up trying to think of distractions and bursts out her door.

When she walks into view of the console, the Doctor is standing at the doors, staring out at what looks like a frigid evening, his breath visible against a night sky twinkling with stars, overcoat billowing in the draft filtering through the doors. The chilled air wafts across her exposed neck and hands as she approaches him, and she shivers despite the layers of clothes over the rest of her body, putting the scarf around her neck and the gloves over her fingers.

“Where are we?” she whispers, like she’ll disturb the tranquility of the scene outside.

“The Netherlands,” he answers, without turning his head. “Well, strictly speaking it’s Lower Lotharingia, on the outskirts of the Holy Roman Empire, 1307. Earth.”

Huddling close to him, the smooth, glassy surface he’s landed them on becomes clear from what little greenish light filters out from the TARDIS.

“Doctor, we’re on ice. We’ve got to move someplace else.”

When he laughs, she knows he’s not laughing _at_ her; it’s just his way of venting some of the enthusiasm he normally keeps in check. It takes her a minute to take note of the death traps securely tied to his feet.

And the second pair in his right hand that he cleverly concealed until she came close.

“All right, put these on.” His tone is light and pleasing as he hands her the skates she knows will be exactly her size, but she only blanches and backs away from the blades, her hands up in caution.

“Oh, I dunno…”

Once, when she was twelve, and a second time, when she was sixteen, Rose has been ice-skating. The first, every giggle and scoff in the ice rink was over the blonde girl at the edge who couldn’t let go of the railing. The second, she was accompanied by the biggest mistake of her life. He dragged her away from the side before she was ready, and though her skills improved enough to make it around the rink a couple times, he let go to show off and she slipped and hit her head hard enough to get a minor concussion.

“Why not?” His bottom lip pouts like a character from a cartoon, his eyes draining of their energy and filling with dejection in a fraction of a second.

“’Cause, I…” She tries to think of a way to explain her hesitance without sounding like a fool.

The prospect of being able to hold his hand for something other than utility or to run for their lives tempts her, it definitely tempts her. But the fear of being so terrible even he’ll laugh outweighs that easily.

“What?” He whines, actually whines, like a little boy who can’t get the candy he wants.

“Doctor, I dunno how,” she tries to plea but her argument has no substance and she knows it.

“Don’t worry, I do. I can teach you. C’mon, it’s the quintessential winter sport. Perfect for getting in the spirit!” Not all of his excitement could be dampened by her reluctance, and sparks of it come to life again as he glances out at the frozen water. He holds the skates out again, flashing enough teeth in his smile that it’s just ridiculous enough to make her cave.

“Okay,” she sighs.

“Brilliant,” he sings with excitement, voice a step higher than usual. A second later he’s hopping out the open door, landing with a slicing thud that turns into a steady carving infused with his childlike laughter as he glides out of sight.

“Oof,” she huffs as she collapses on the grating, wrenching off her furry boots in favor of strapping on the likely rock-hard skates.

It takes her several minutes to get them on and tied with the strings through all the right circles and hooks while preventing the tough material from cutting off her circulation. Once they’re finally as comfortable as she thinks they can get, she realizes she hadn’t thought through standing. Rather than risk breaking her legs, she scoots her bum back until she can pull open the door and look outside.

“Oh.” The air leaves her lungs in a whoosh when she sees him, gliding across the ice at a speed that looks downright dangerous, twirling effortlessly to maneuver backwards across the ice and wave nonchalantly back to her. For a while she can only stare open-mouthed at the sight. By the time she realizes she should be backing away from the door so he can come back in, his blades are scraping to a stop just outside the door, sending a blast of frost against her face.

“Sorry!” His cheeks are pink from the icy wind and she thinks there’s some product in his hair that’s frozen, making today’s hairstyle oddly even more set than usual. He’s laughing even as he apologizes, kneeling in front of her and using the sleeve of his coat to gently brush the snowflakes off her face and clothes. “Aren’t you gonna come out?” He nods to the expanse of ice behind him, reflecting the white light of the moon and distant orange lights from someplace she can’t quite see.

“Yeah, okay, but Doctor, I can’t – you can’t – we can’t do…” she gestures furiously with her skate-bearing hand out onto the ice, recalling his lithe, graceful movements. “That.”

He rolls his eyes in a way that can only be described as endearing before stepping off the ice and holding out his hands for her. He hauls her off the floor, weighted down metal skates and all, as easily as if she weighed two stone, brushing remnants of frost from her coat.

“Rose, please.” His hands come to rest gently on her shoulders, his deep brown eyes so alight with excitement that she can’t possible look away. “We’ll take it slow. I won’t let you fall. I promise.” Such sincerity rings from the last two words that all her rebuttals die on her lips. “Eh?”

Her answering smile blooms slowly but it’s genuine, this time. She can’t possibly trust him with her life when confronted with Slitheen or Daleks, and not on a simple sheet of ice, can she? Clear, smooth, freezing, slippery ice…

“’Kay,” she concedes as she fits her gloved hand inside his extended one, feeling a stab of disappointment when the comforting sensation of his barely-warm palm and thumb against hers doesn’t come. Still, she hooks her padded thumbs and fingers around his too-relaxed hand, holding on for dear life before they even step outside the ship. He chuckles at the intensity of her grip but doesn’t let go.

He steps out first, of course, his smile warm and encouraging against the frosty air, his eyes almost twinkling with reflections of the abundant starlight. The first foot lands on the ice without incident, but slips several inches forward as she brings the other foot next to it, the surface even more slick than she remembered. The Doctor’s arm stiffens against her rough jerk but he stands steady beside her, his skates firmly planted on the ice.

“All right?” It’s less a concern for her continued balance and more a request for permission to move, but she nods despite herself.

“Yeah.” Her breath puffs out in a dense gray cloud against the dark frigid night.

With a light tug on her hand they start to move, one of his long glides to three of her short, jerky steps across the ice. Three times in the first minute the blade nearly takes her legs out from beneath her, and by the fourth she’s ready to call it quits and turn back to the warm, dry friction of the TARDIS floor. The Doctor is well-prepared for her reluctance, though.

“Don’t step like you’re on regular ground. It’s instinct to step forward by pushing back against the ground with your toes, but it doesn’t work on the ice – you’ll just end up smashing your face. I know, I’ve done it. Nearly regenerated that day, in fact.”

“Doctor!” His anecdotes about nearly snapping his neck aren’t helping at all.

“Sorry! It won’t happen to you, Rose, I won’t let it. Just… when you’re pushing off the ice, do it at an angle, out to the side rather than to the back. Like so.” He demonstrates the technique with two short strokes while she just drags behind him, trailing along by their connected hands but stubbornly not moving her legs. She can see what he’s saying, about pushing out, rather than back, and she has no reason not to trust him on this, but it looks difficult, making her anxious about doing an accidental split instead. Why hasn’t anyone told her this before? They should hand out booklets of tips at ice skating rinks back home.

She nods, acknowledging the advice, and tries it out, her forearm starting to shake a little from how hard she’s holding his hand. Though her two amateur steps are much shorter than his professional strokes, to her surprise, neither skate slips.

“Better,” he encourages, moving to match her strides and pace as she acclimates to the technique, fighting every walking instinct she’s known since she was a toddler to awkwardly mimic his v-shaped running motion.

She gets too confident too quickly, though, with the support of his sturdy arm and the new movement. Twice in succession her weight tilts back, causing her feet to slip forward as she almost flops onto her backside. The Doctor keeps her upright easily enough, pulling up and as he leans forward to compensate for her mistake.

“All right?” he asks again.

“Yeah, sorry. Can’t quite get the hang of this.” She worries her bottom lip and looks down at the ice rather back into the concerned eyes of the expert, as a pathetic novice herself.

“Sure? You seem a little tense.” His head tilts down to indicate her death grip on his hand.

“Maybe, I dunno,” she admits. “I don’t want to fall.”

“Rose, have I ever – ”

“I know, I know, you won’t let me, I know.” She looks back at him to find a surprised smirk on his face, a distinctive curve to his expressive left eyebrow.

“No,” he giggles at her surly attitude, rather than being offended. It’s just frustrating is all; she didn’t intend to take it out on him.

“Try and relax.” His eyes are patient, his tone soothing and hardly above a whisper. She still hasn’t gotten used to the pleasing, smooth tenor of his normal speaking voice, often still expecting harsh Northern edges from a deeper, angrier voice. But when he’s calm and suave like this, hushed words of reassurance on his lips like he’s trying to seduce her (it’s working), her heart skips a beat.

“If your muscles are too tense, your joints will lock up and it’ll be easier to fall. Bend your knees, lean forward a little so you won’t fall back. And just relax.” With each bit of advice he does a demonstration of how it’s done, ending with a light squeeze of her rigid, slightly numb hand as his way of illustrating how wound up she really is. She tries to ease up on his fingers a little as she seeks reassurance from the optimism in his eyes.

“…’kay,” she chokes out too late, swallowing hard.

Focusing on loosening the tightness in her thighs, calves, and feet, she tries again, the sweet relief of contracted muscles finally relaxing making her realize just how tense she’s become. When she tries again, it’s easier, less tension restricting her movements.

It’s a few minutes before she realizes her hand is only gently clasped in his, that she’s laughing with him as they make their way across the ice in a slow, wide circle.

“Rose, look.” He gestures with their joined hands.

Too distracted by watching her own feet, she hasn’t had a chance to glance around at their surroundings. She gasps at the sight, her feet gliding across the ice as she takes in the sight, too startled to move.

A small village sits just beyond the edge of the frozen lake, dozens of modest-sized wooden homes and shops huddled close together, their roofs covered with a thick layer of fluffy snow. Warm firelight shines through tiny, opaque windows, casting a warm glow onto the white canvas beneath them, inviting passersby indoors for the evening. Torches around the streets give the entire village a halo of golden light against the night sky, dark blue with bright flecks of white.

“‘s beautiful,” she breathes at last, though she can’t take her eyes off the quaint, peaceful town before them. He hums softly in the back of his throat in quiet agreement.

A handful of people wander through the square, bundled in layers and strangely shaped hats, but most of them duck quickly inside the nearest building to escape the cold. Some less focused individuals, though, around the edges of the humble town, glance in their direction, a few heads turning and hands gesturing to the pair of them, the lunatics risking a cracked skull on the frozen water.

“Shall we?” he whispers to interrupt her gazing. The warm yellows and oranges of the glowing town paint his fair cheeks with color, making it impossible to say no to him even though her toes are starting to go numb in her skates and her cheeks are stinging with every mild breeze.

With a few more easy laps around their imaginary circle, she feels much more comfortable in the stride. A few slip-ups happen, of course; she trips on her toe pick once, her left foot slides too far out another, loses her balance another. But the Doctor’s steady grip doesn’t let any of them culminate in a graceless spill onto the ice, and she gets more confident as time goes on.

Confident enough to let go of his hand.

“You sure, Rose?” The creases in his forehead question whether she’s ready when he feels the loss of her hand.

“Yeah. Think I can do this.” She rubs her hands together, trying to get some measure of relief from fingers that are starting to freeze solid despite the thick gray material covering them. “Stay close, though, yeah?”

“’Course.” He nods, knowing as well as she does there was never a chance he wouldn’t.

She uses his arm a few times at first, just as a precaution. Something to catch herself on when her skate doesn’t land just right, or she misjudges the angle of her pushing foot.

“Good,” he congratulates when they make it a full circle around without her touching his coat. Her amateur steps still lack the practiced finesse of his long strides, and the movements of her arms and hips still seem jerky compared to the way his body seems to glide across the ice like some kind of majestic ice bird. But, she supposes every professional skating bloke looks that way (or so she convinces herself).

“How are you so good at this, then?”

“Ohhh,” he drawls, a telltale sign he quite fancies the compliment in the confines of his mind but outwardly pretends he doesn’t deserve it. “I wasn’t always. Like I said, I fell hard the first few times, back home.” She doesn’t miss the notes of sorrow that enter his voice when he says the word, despite how fleeting they are. “But I’ve done this thousands of times now. You learn to do quite a lot of things like this here and there when you’ve lived as long as I have.

“’S a long time, yeah.”

“Yep,” he agrees, popping the ‘p.’ “Almost a thousand years old, me.”

“Still look good, if y’ask me.” It slips from her lips. Completely slips.

“Well.” He looks down at himself like he’s double-checking the view, taking in thin limbs and shades of brown the same way she has been since he was ‘born.’ “Y’think?”

“Sure, yeah.” She shrugs as much as she can without toppling over, down-playing her previous statement.

 He hums in obvious appreciation, a wide smile between cheeks that are a little more pink than usual.

“Doctor, what day is it?” she asks as they come into view of the village again.

“December the 24th. Well, about thirty seconds left of it, now.”

Just as he speaks, the blade beneath her right foot snags on something in the ice, stopping one foot mid-stride and not the other.

“Rose,” the Doctor calls immediately on hearing the metallic slicing sound of a step gone wrong. She lifts her leg to get over the obstacle but her center of gravity is completely lost, her skates out of coordination and her bodily wobbling back and forth dangerously. Her skates crash down onto the ice faster and harder as she tries to recover a rhythm, but as she gains speed she only loses more of her already precarious balance.

Before she can meet her icy fate, though, the Doctor is in front of her. Somehow he’d gone out ahead while she was stumbling, and he gains enough speed to collide with her from the front before she loses the last of her ability to stay upright. She crashes into his chest, clutching at fistfuls of his suit jacket to right her skates and regain her balance as his arms trap her inside their grasp, protecting her from falling to all sides.

He holds her tightly for a moment, ensuring she won’t slip again, before he laughs softly into her hair.

“Told you I wouldn’t let you fall.”

“Y’did say that.” She pushes away from his chest to look up at him, his eyes a little wild but relieved. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” His answering grin could have brought her to the ice, anyway, if his arms weren’t still around her waist.

“You know what,” he continued. “I think… wait, hold on…” He closes his eyes for a moment, his eyebrows pulled together in concentration, before opening them again with renewed energy. “Here we are. December the 25th. Happy Christmas number two, Rose Tyler.”

“Happy Christmas, Doctor.”

The moment stretches on, that they smile brightly at one another in the early seconds of their third Christmas together. That she clings onto his clothes despite being perfectly capable of standing on her own now, and he doesn’t remove his arms from around her though he knows that just as well. They’ve had a handful of moments like this that one or both of them has always brushed off, and normally she’d be doing that right now. But it’s so much warmer pressed against him and all his layers than being surrounded by the chilly air that she only sinks deeper into his embrace, content to gaze into the brown depths of his eyes for hours.

She’s close enough to count the freckles on his cheeks in the pale light from behind her, to catch the scent of the unique, woodsy cologne she usually can only smell during their brief hugs… to realize his lush bottom lip actually casts a little shadow on his chin. She can think of nothing she’d rather do than touch him. Smooth her palm across his cheek, brush her thumb over the pout of that lip, comb her fingers through his hair. Imagining how different it will all feel to the other Doctor’s features somehow excites rather than frightens her.

Too distracted by thoughts of touching him, she doesn’t notice that he’s closed much of the distance between them, his hands snug over her hips holding her against him, his eyes drifting decidedly south of hers as he leans closer. Without giving her time to think, he angles his head to bring his mouth to hers, a chaste touch of his lips with gentle but insistent pressure. His mouth is a warm solace from the wintry air, his lips smooth and full against her own, a minty cool scent reminiscent of aftershave on his skin, and a sigh is muffled by the kiss before she can stop it.

Before even a second has passed he pulls away, separating their lips with barely a sound.

“Sorry, I… uhm… I...” He struggles to speak as one hand comes up to fidget with the back of his collar, his eyes roaming from her shoulder to her hair but never to meet her waiting eyes. “I mean, do you… was that – ”

“Yes,” she interrupts.

“Yeah?” His hand drops from its anxious fretting behind his head, a grin spreading across his face again at her answer.

“Yes.”

“Good, yeah.” He nods, unsure of how to proceed. “Brilliant.”

She pulls him down by his lapels for another soft kiss before his gob goes into overdrive.

“Rose, your lips are frozen,” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers, his quiet chuckles warming up her nose.

“I’m freezin’,” she agrees, nodding gently against him.

“C’mon.” He glides backward, extending a hand for hers, and it’s only then she remembers they’re still standing in the middle of the ice in their skates. “Let’s get you ins – oh.” Something behind her catches his gaze, his eyes widening in disbelief, his lips parted in surprise.

She turns around to find a small crowd of onlookers standing just where the reflection of the sky meets the white ground, probably a hundred feet away. Half of them point across the ice to the two of them, and the other half seems to be paying close attention to a thin bloke in the center, holding a shoe in his hand and gesturing frantically to the bottom of the sole. They stand there for a moment staring at the flickering silhouettes of the crowd, in disbelief they’ve even been noticed.

“Rose,” the Doctor breathes, like he’s suddenly apprehensive the crowd will hear them. “I think we just became the first ice skaters in history.”

With a glance at each other’s shocked faces, they both burst into laughter, abandoning any attempts to keep the volume down. The Doctor takes her hand in his, turning them around to start them both skating in the direction of the TARDIS.

Neither of them can figure out why it’s so funny, but they have to stop moving every few feet to support each other when they double over with persistent giggles, and her stomach is sore by the time they reach the doors.

After peeling off their outer layers and wriggling out of their skates, the Doctor leads Rose to the kitchen, holding her icy hands between both of his and promising the best hot cocoa she’s ever had as they wind down the hall.

She perches on the counter while he rustles up the ingredients and combines them over the stove.

“You made Christmas history today.” He piles tiny marshmallows into a Father Christmas mug and dunks a candy cane in the steaming chocolate, hooking it over the rim before handing it to her. She wraps her fingers around the hot ceramic, its warmth chasing away the last of the numbness from her fingertips, as he takes a Christmas tree mug for himself. He toasts their evening with a clink of his mug against hers before taking a small sip. “How does it feel?”

She only hums deeply in response, having taken to her drink much more than he has, savoring the creamy chocolate and chewy marshmallow and hint of peppermint as she gulps down a few times, radiating warmth over her lips and through her chest (but not so hot that it scalds her tongue).

“Sorry?” He leans forward with a playful smile, like he wants her to repeat herself.

“Brilliant,” she beams after downing nearly half the mug, subconsciously picking up on one of his new favorite catchphrases.

“The chocolate, or becoming part of history?”

“Both.”

He flashes her a brilliant smile before bringing his cocoa to his lips again so they can take a drink together.

“You’ve got a little…here.” He waves his finger over his top lip once he swallows.

“Wha’?” She knows she has chocolate-marshmallow foam on her lips – she can feel it – but she wants to test the waters a little more. See if what happened on the ice was a fluke or if he’s willing to make a habit of it.

“Here.” He takes a large gulp of his chocolate, purposefully angling the mug too high so he gets light brown foam all over his mouth. “Ahhh,” he sighs, refreshed. “Like so.”

His tongue darts out to swipe around his mouth in a shallow circle, wiping away some of the brown rim but not close to all of it.

“Gone?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Nope.” She shakes her head before succumbing to giggles. She makes a purposefully poor attempt to get the chocolate off her own mouth, her tongue barely reaching both her lips.

“What about me?”

“Nope.” He crosses his arms with a chuckle.

“Where’s it at?” She knows, she can feel the stickiness of the sugar clinging around her lips, and he must know she does, too.

“Come here,” he beckons, shaking his head as he sets his cocoa on the counter beside him. She jumps off the counter in an instant, leaving her mug on the counter next to his before walking into his outstretched arms.

He pulls her flush against him, wrapping an arm around her waist and bringing a hand up to stroke along her cheek. Her arms wrap around his neck as he leans in close, brushing his nose against hers as he rocks them side-to-side for a moment.

His approach is just as delicate as the first time on the ice, a tender press of his lips against hers as he cups her cheek in his hand, but he lingers this time, as they savor the warmth, adjust to the shape of each other’s mouths. He pulls back only briefly to moisten his lips before kissing her again, parting their lips so she can just taste remnants of the chocolate on his.

A different, electric kind of heat surges through her veins now, all centered around the slow dance of their mouths, the gentle brushes of his lips on hers. He neither rushes nor pressures the kiss to escalate too soon, and it’s something she’s never quite experienced with other blokes when kissing has traditionally been a means to and end, especially seeing how they’re alone and basically live together. The Doctor is kissing her for its own sake, enjoying it for what it is. She echoes the pleased noises he makes in the back of his throat with soft little moans of her own as her hands travel up to tangle in his hair.

Only after several moments spent learning the texture of each other’s lips does he transition to a more intimate technique, pulling her top lip between his teeth, running his tongue across the top as he gently sucks it clean of the chocolaty coating.

She takes his face in both hands when it’s her turn, pulling his top lip into her mouth, the chocolate and peppermint and a distinctive, savory flavor she thinks is just the Doctor swirl around on her tongue until she’s lightheaded. When she finally has his plump bottom lip between hers she dizzies even more, but she takes her time with this one, pretends she can still taste the chocolate long after it’s gone.

He rests his forehead against hers again when they’ve had their fill, their sighs mingling in the small space between them as he threads his fingers through hers, mirroring her shy smile. His thumbs stroke along her hands and they stay like this for quite some time, their eyes closing as they linger in the intimacy of the moment, cling to the calm and pleasant warmth of the unfamiliar closeness. She’s nearly ready to fall asleep on his shoulder when he whispers her name.

“Rose?”

“Hm?” It’s hardly even a syllable.

“Next time, you only have to ask.”


End file.
